


candlelight

by catharsia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon Era, Dubious Consent to Vampiric Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampire Grantaire, i have no idea why i wrote it either, look this is exactly what it sounds like, references to murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharsia/pseuds/catharsia
Summary: Enjolras is silent, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, gently winding his fingers through his golden hair. When he pulls downwards on it, Enjolras no longer resists him. 'Come on, ange. I'm so thirsty. Just a taste?''It's never just a taste,' Enjolras says, voice hoarse.Well, that's true enough, but also not a rejection. Grantaire tilts his mouth right up to Enjolras's ear, and says, silkily, 'Permets-tu?'or:grantaire is a vampire. enjolras is his favourite person.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

'Enjolras,' sings Grantaire.

Enjolras doesn't bother to look up. It's closing on midnight, and yet he's still hunched over his table at the back of the Musain. His face is half-buried in warm shadow, nose and eyes and mouth bleeding away into smoky candlelight.

He jabs his pen into the inkwell. His shirtsleeves are long and loose enough that they brush against his parchment, as he does so. Grantaire follows their motion, a little transfixed, then trails his gaze up over Enjolras's wrist; his navel; his collarbone. If he closes his eyes, he can hear Enjolras’s heartbeat, strong and infuriatingly steady.

'Enjolras,' he repeats, half-reverent, half-impatient.

'Not _now,_ Grantaire,' snaps Enjolras, quill scratching and sliding over a new sheet of parchment. His yellow hair, caught close to the candlelight, burns gold. 

Grantaire pushes his lips into a little moué. He uncurls himself from his perch atop the bar, and dances noiselessly across the room over rotted wooden floorboards. He leans down over Enjolras's shoulder; he doesn’t need to breathe, of course, but now he breathes out, fully and deliberately.

Enjolras’s candle winks out. 

'Fuck!' 

'My apologies, ange,' Grantaire murmurs unapologetically. They've been plunged entirely into darkness; or, rather, Enjolras has been. Poor thing. It must be quite disorienting. Grantaire hums, seizing Enjolras's wrists before he can attempt to stand.

'Let me go,' snaps Enjolras, twisting his hands viciously in Grantaire's grip. 

He's strong, for a human. Grantaire rolls his eyes, holding him fast, and leans over his wooden chair a little further. The scent of the extinguished candle, pleasantly acrid, is dissipating into the air.

Grantaire sways a little. His head feels deadened, as if someone has swaddled him in cotton; he feels disconcertingly _mortal,_ actually. It’s quite intolerable.

This could all be resolved so much more quickly, if Enjolras would give up being so needlessly stubborn. 

'What is it?' Enjolras asks, as if on cue. 

Good boy. Grantaire smiles, and positions his lips just a centimetre or so from Enjolras's right collarbone. He exhales again, slowly and deliberately, knowing the rush of cool air will send goosebumps skittering over Enjolras's skin. 

'You're _thirsty_?' asks Enjolras incredulously. 

Grantaire slides his grip further up Enjolras's arms. His muscles are all tensed up. 'Darling, I'm disappointed it's taken you this long to catch on. You're not normally this slow.' 

'I'm not slow at all,' Enjolras snaps. 'I just don't understand why we have to do this tonight. I'm _working,_ as you've been aware.'

'Mm,' says Grantaire, relinquishing his grip on Enjolras's arms, so he can slide one arm over his collarbones and the other round his head. 'The issue is, darling, you’re always working. And you taste _so_ good that it makes waiting... difficult.' 

He presses his lips against Enjolras's neck. It's quite amusing to feel Enjolras's whole body flinch as he tries, and fails, to control his reaction; tries and fails not to tilt his head backwards, automatically allowing Grantaire easier access. 

'I'm working,' Enjolras repeats, already halfway to breathless. 

'I don't see how you can do that in the dark, ange, and your candle seems to have blown out.' 

'Fuck you.' 

'You can later, if you'd still like, but I'm afraid this might use up most of your energy.' 

Enjolras remains silent, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, gently winding his fingers through his golden hair. When he pulls downwards on it, Enjolras doesn't resist. 'Come on, ange. I'm so thirsty. Just a taste?' 

'It's never just a taste,' Enjolras says, voice hoarse.

Well, that's true enough, but also not a rejection. Grantaire tilts his mouth right up to Enjolras's ear, and says, as silkily as possible, 'Permets-tu?' 

Enjolras shudders, limbs finally falling lax against the chair. Grantaire smiles, and, in one swift motion, thrusts his fangs down into Enjolras's smooth neck. 

Enjolras's blood tastes like nothing else Grantaire has ever experienced, at once better and worse than any human food, any human drug. Grantaire is the one shuddering, now, half-aware of his eyes rolling back into his skull as he drags Enjolras's head sideways by his hair, exposing the expanse of his long neck, tongue lapping up blood more quickly than Enjolras's heart can deliver it. The dullness in his head disintegrates, shoved aside by a crystalline euphoria. 

Grantaire has done this thousands of times; probably hundreds of thousands: more than enough to have developed an instinct for when he's going too far, drinking too deeply. He's ignored that instinct quite happily many times, too, but this is Enjolras and he is certainly not bleeding Enjolras dry. 

Still, the thought of stopping is anathema when he tastes so sinfully good. Grantaire knows he’s been hanging onto his neck for too long, now; by seconds and perhaps minutes. He allows himself to take one long, final drink, then peels his lips away, licking and biting at the open wound on Enjolras's neck to ensure it seals. 

Enjolras's body has gone limp against the chair. 

'Enjolras?' asks Grantaire cautiously, shaking his head, fingers still twisted through his hair. his whole body feels aflame with energy, practically exploding through his skin. He has to focus hard to shake Enjolras gently enough not to snap his neck.

No response. Grantaire frowns, feeling down Enjolras's body and catching up his wrist again. His pulse is still perceptible - of course - but thin, erratic.

Grantaire drags Enjolras and his chair out from under the desk with his left hand, and moves around to face him. Senses entirely unencumbered by the dark, he leans down and scoops Enjolras’s body up from the chair, sliding one arm around his back and another around his knees until he is slung horizontally in Grantaire's hold.

He doesn't stir. Grantaire almost feels remorseful for the amount of blood he's taken, but it’s impossible to regret it while pure euphoria dances throughout every fibre of his own body. 

Besides, Enjolras will be fine. It's not like they haven't gone nearly this far before; many times. Grantaire will carry him back to his room on the Rue de la Paix and watch over him, feeding him expensive wine, and grapes when he can handle them. He'll make sure Enjolras doesn't try to rise from bed until he's recovered; he's rather prone to attempting stupid things like that.

Yes, Enjolras will be fine. Grantaire cradles his prone body close to his chest, and slips out into the night, licking the remnants of blood from his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i could say i wrote this for a prompt or something but actually i was just suddenly inspired to write cracky vampire grantaire at 3 in the morning. i think this is exactly what victor hugo intended xx


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Stop trying to get up,' says Grantaire. 'You need to rest. you know that.'
> 
> 'Yes, because you nearly drained me fucking dry,' Enjolras snaps, attempting to slam his knees upwards into Grantaire's crotch.

'Grantaire.'

Enjolras's eyelids protest, trying to close, but he forces them open, blinking rapidly to bring the world into focus.

_ 'Grantaire _ ,' he repeats, voice a low, scratching growl.

Then there's a weight on his chest; a hand, pressing him firmly back against the bed. It's infuriating, and he struggles against it, ineffectually. His limbs feel weak and slow, not merely due to him being half-asleep.

The room around him finally loses its slick haze, sliding into focus. Grantaire is leaning over him. Since feeding, almost all the colour in his eyes has been swallowed up by his pupils; now stark black, and larger than those of any opium addict. They're the only physical sign he isn't human.

Well, those and his right hand, which is resting casually on Enjolras's torso with all the force of an iron restraint.

'Stop trying to get up,' says Grantaire. 'You need to rest. you know that.'

'Yes, because you nearly drained me fucking dry,' Enjolras snaps, attempting to slam his knees upwards into Grantaire's crotch. 

Grantaire looks wounded at that - the words, not the failure of a physical attack - which is ridiculous. 'I would  _ never _ do that.'

'Are you forgetting I've seen you kill?'

'Well, obviously, I would kill a hypothetical person. But I would never kill you.' 

'I'm touched,' says Enjolras, as venomously as he can manage. He lets his head fall back against the pillow, turning his neck so as to avoid looking at Grantaire any longer. 

There's a mirror mounted in an ugly gold frame on the wall opposite. Through it, Enjolras can make out the curtains behind him, drawn tightly closed against the eyes of any prying Parisians on the street below. The lamps at either side of the bed are burning, to replace the benefits of daylight. Enjolras can see himself, too, body bound beneath the thick red coverlet, face visible but gaunt. He's never been vain, but even he is led to recoil a little at the depth of the shadows now scrawled beneath his eyes; the sunken pallor of his cheeks. 

His head begins to throb, as if in sympathy with his sick appearance. 

'How are you feeling?' asks Grantaire, like a parody of an attentive suitor. He presses his hand against Enjolras's forehead, and Enjolras forces himself not to lean into him; but Grantaire's skin is always ice cold, and, in truth, the touch brings immediate relief. 

'Fine,' lies Enjolras. 'And I would feel entirely better if you would  _ get off me _ .'

Grantaire's weight does disappear, at that. Enjolras is mildly surprised. He stares stubbornly into the mirror, as Grantaire resettles himself on the foot of the bed. 

'Did you at least fetch my papers from the Musain?'

'They're downstairs. Musichetta delivered them to us this morning.'

'I do hope you didn't eat her.'

'Bien sûr que non,' says Grantaire, managing to sound at once offended and amused. 'I told her you were sick, and she offered to bring us some food later. She was very sweet.'

The thought of food currently makes Enjolras's stomach want to throw itself out of his throat, although he suspects that he needs it. He'll probably want to eat in a few hours, anyway, even if it's unimaginable now. 

'You will want to eat, in a few hours,' says Grantaire. He really is infuriating. Enjolras glares into the mirror. There's the sound of some kind of liquid being poured, and seconds later Grantaire's arm drops into his line of sight, holding out a cup of wine. 'Drink.' 

Enjolras is stubborn, but his mouth tastes like a mausoleum, and ultimately he allows that to win out. He takes the cup, pushing himself up onto one elbow so he can sip from it. 

He isn't exactly a connoisseur, but even he can tell it's wine that's better than it has any right to be. 

'How much did this cost?' he asks, somewhat acerbically. 

Grantaire laughs. 'Don't worry your pretty head about that.'

In the mirror, Enjolras's scowl deepens. He drops the cup onto the table next to him, more heavily than is necessary. It clatters onto the wood unevenly, tipping precariously onto its rim and beginning a noisy, vulture-like descent into stability. 

Grantaire's hand shoots out and stills it. 

'May I have my papers?' Enjolras asks, not bothering to hide the annoyance that spills out into his voice at having to ask  _ permission. _

'You shouldn't be working,' Grantaire says. 'You need rest. Also, that's  _ boring _ . We haven't spent the day here together in so long,  _ ange _ .'

'No, not since the last time you nearly killed me.' 

He almost regrets saying it, after the fact. a look of discernable hurt twists its way onto Grantaire's bloodless face. And he doesn't really mean it, either. He  _ is _ entirely sure that Grantaire would never kill him; would probably die before that happened, if he was actually capable of it. 

But his jibe serves its purpose. Grantaire stands, hurt deepening into repentance. There's thick stubble growing over his strong, crooked jaw, but despite that he manages to appear suddenly, strangely young. Young, and  _ guilty _ . 

'I'll get the papers from downstairs,' he murmurs, and heads for the door. 

Enjolras waits a beat, then swings his legs over the side of the bed. His head stings with lightness, but he pulls himself shakily onto his feet. Grantaire hasn't undressed him, just slipped off his shoes, which are lying in a haphazard heap in the corner. Enjolras tugs them on, balancing himself against the wall as he does so, in order to avoid going into a crouch. He doesn't particularly want to incur the headrush that would certainly give him, just at the moment. 

He throws open the curtain, and sunlight streams into the room, harsh and white. There's a steady flow of people dipping through the street below; women flitting from shop to shop with baskets on their arms; children darting in and out of the way of carriages; men in tailored coats attempting to avoid piles of manure. 

Enjolras drags open the sash window, his arms protesting pathetically, and slides out of it shoulders-first. It's clumsy, but he knows he barely has any time. Grantaire will be slowed by the fact he has to appear human in front of the building's other residents, and Gavroche at the desk will probably want to talk to him, but if he has any sense at all he won't quite trust Enjolras to stay put; will want to return upstairs as swiftly as possible. 

Then Enjolras is on the small wooden balcony. He doesn't bother to pull the curtains closed, or the window; it will be obvious, anyway, where he's gone. He swings his leg over the railing, and for a moment misses his footing; then his toes are braced securely between panels, and he swings his other leg around as well. 

The drop down onto street level isn't too far. He edges his hands further down the railings, Then bends his knees and, checking there's no one beneath him, lets go. 

The ground seems to slam first into his knees, then feet, then calves. Swaying, he forces his body into a standing position, then straightens up. 

He's made it. 

The girl in the fruit stand on the other side of the street is staring at him, lips parted in a perfect O-shape, as if in a farce. He draws his eyebrows together, and she looks away hurriedly, ducking her head so that her cheeks are obscured by a tangle of curls. 

The air is sharp. Enjolras realises he has no way of knowing the time, but it looks to be mid-morning. The sun is high, and sparkling overhead - and cold. 

He thinks for a moment of Grantaire, who will undoubtedly be upset upon his return to the empty room. More crushed, than angry. Enjolras's hand moves to his neck; to the crescent-shaped dent there that's barely begun to knit over itself. He shivers, slightly, and drops his hand to his side, pushing it into his pocket. 

He lifts his chin, and sets out at a pace down the Rue de la Paix. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't planning on writing any more than the original chapter for this, but then i got hit by this weird drive to continue it, so here we are. 
> 
> now that this is a chaptered fic, i feel like i have to point out: obviously, this is a relationship with some severe issues. i'm not trying to romanticise those issues in any way, although i feel like the fact grantaire is a literal vampire probably gives away the fact that this is meant to be slightly ridiculous. 
> 
> next chapter: grantaire mopes. 
> 
> if you enjoyed (or if you didn't), please leave a quick comment! xx


End file.
